Defined Warmth
by Sakata Ri Houjun
Summary: The desperate quest of one lone Sand-nin for something he cannot begin to describe. -NaruGaa-


Defined Warmth  
By Sakata Ri Houjun

Pairing: GaaNaru  
Rating: R  
Warning: poetic citrus, angst, sap

AN: This fic is purely descriptive. To clear up any confusion, it's all from Gaara's mind – what he's feeling rather than thinking. There is no definitive dialogue in this, only disjointed emotions and vague actions.

I can hear you crying  
If you want I'll watch you die  
We could be surviving  
And the time would pass us by – _Blue Valiant_, Songs of the Witchblade

---

He abhorred the cold. The stinging sensation bit into his skin like thousands of needles, numbing his fingers. He remembered the first cold night he breathed into, seeing it melt into the darkness, afraid it was his soul escaping into the void.

It had unnerved him.

Sand offered no warmth in the gloom. He could bury himself within the life-stealing matter to the point that the sheer weight of earth and stone crushed his bones, but it would not block out the chill that invaded his body come nightfall.

In a way, that was his motive for hunting after the elusive warmth.

Fresh blood was hot, a syrupy crimson that clung to skin, still beating with life and ever-blessed warmth. Yet so quickly did it cool, the warmth escaping, evaporating, leaving just the sticky behind.

In the sun, he basked, absorbing much of the heat that poured from the sky. Permeating him utterly. He was fine then, could survive and lose nothing to the day.

It was the sleepless nights that left him huddling from the frigid air, turning inward in wait for the sunrise.

Though that wasn't enough. He wanted to be consumed in a wash of warmth that would never abandon him.

Anger was a sort of warmth, an intense emotion that overwhelmed his body and lashed out violently. Death became his calling card so easily. Many avoided his presence, making it harder to summon the rage, harder to spill hot blood.

What use was there to scream in rage if there was no one to fear it?

Eventually he got into the habit at night of moving, traveling with the speed of wind-strewn sand to the edges of the desert, finding something to chase away the cold. Yet he uncovered nothing to stave it off for long.

Further he pressed, beyond borders, a near desperation fueling his purpose, childlike in origin. It was as though he were pulling at the hemline of some unknown force, fairly begging for the sweet warmth like candy, yet met with indifference to his pleas.

The craving for the antagonism that he felt in his youth eventually mellowed under this greater need, became secondary in the face of the unnatural chill that raced through his blood. It devoured him - a sadistic, insidious imp with teeth that tore deep. He would lash out at it if _it_ had something physical to it, spill its freezing blood and revel in the still death so that he could remain warm forever.

If sleepless insanity hadn't already claimed his mind, this ceaseless struggle against the cold would have by now.

When he saw the movement, self-possessed and alive, in the distance among the shrouded trees, he questioned his sense of mind, if it were a delusion conjured up to tease him further. Suppressing a shiver, he investigated stealthily, the whisper of sand against ground hidden against the rustle of leaves.

He could sense the other's warmth, flickering like visible chakra, so painfully vibrant that he winced. It called to him, alluring and real, like the scent of blood calling a predator.

Ignoring the base urge to strike, he instead pressed as close as he dare, masking his presence. He basked in the warmth of his discovery, drinking it in like it was some sugared elixir that clung to his insides.

He could smell the unwashed earth that streaked the other's body, of cooling sweat and old blood. Translucent aqua eyes watched with detached interest as the other sucked on his knuckles, nursing browned burnt skin.

The pulling of taunt flesh split open the dry scabbed bend of the knuckles, fresh hot crimson spilling in welling beads as fingers flexed. Unconsciously, he reached over, pale fingers encircling the slender wrist, tugging the wound to his mouth where he tasted the salty sweetness. Like a cat, his tongue played with the open epidermis, diluting the strength of those few iron drops with his saliva, yet relishing in the heat that flowed from his throat downwards.

Then the hand was gone, jerked from his possession, snapping him from his silent reverie. Pale aqua glimmered in the sparse moonlight that filtered through the overhead canopy of lush green, making him seem all the more unearthly in the other's gaze, more demonic than the blood-stained sand that was the extension of his shared duality.

Unabashed, unknowing, he stared into flabbergasted blue, like the cloudless mornings that he basked under; blue that was overshadowed by vibrant yellow. He could feel the warmth radiating against him, towards him, aimed specifically in his direction. Easily he leaned towards it, no conscious effort involved.

Except the sun pulled back, drawing away to disappear into the darkness.

Would the sun abandon him so soon after he'd spent so long searching? Deny him the warmth he sought so hungrily?

With a whispered plea, he reached out, every fiber begging for this warmth to return, to not forsake him alone in the cold again.

That blue, so clear blue, clouded over, the skies confused, unsure.

Faint words reached the sun, the skies seeming to empathize with his supplication. Then the most miraculous of boons was granted as the warmth drew to him, avoiding the outstretched hand to approach closer.

There was distrust still in the cerulean that blazed forever clear, but behind it all was the burning of a fire, supernatural as his own. A need to consume and be consumed raced about in unending circles in search of fulfillment.

He waited with finite patience before gathering the sun against him, unable to stand it any longer. He didn't care if he was incinerated in the process – let him burn. It would be a far gratifying end as long as it were to cease the invading chill.

Frantically he clung, burying himself against the pulsating warmth of the other, drowning in it. Life, rich and earthen - it felt real. It pulled a sound from his throat, strange and alien, a cry of bone-weary relief as the cold was chased away, as he was enveloped in invading warmth, fueling his own.

Tighter he clung, so certain of it all vanishing should he relinquish his hold. Never did he want to let go. Fingers sank into cloth and flesh, firm and strong. He could feel the potency radiating, a separate energy just under the surface, as violent as his own, begging release. His own answered in kind, leaving him trembling.

Warm lips clumsily covered his own. A mouth abraised from sand and sun was torn raw and wet by this pliant press of lips, opening him up further, consuming and being consumed.

He drank deeply, inhaling this warmth, this light. Still he thirsted more, wanting to burn up brightly, every fiber suffused with fire.

Awkward hands pulled, revealing ruddy flesh, flushed hot, blood so tantalizingly close to the surface. His mouth trailed, devouring flesh, marking a dry path to each new inch of muscle. The sun sang at each hungry caress, moving towards him.

Was the sun drawn to him as he to it? 

Faintly he was aware of warm hands yanking back, exposing pale skin to moonlight. Blunt nails raked wildly, raising light welts, tearing a new sound from his throat as he was marked, a whine that had nothing to do with pain.

Then they fell together as though one being, joining with the earth and sand, cradled by foliage and darkness. He moved with the sun, legs and arms wrapping close, mouth buried against the soft crook of neck and shoulder, tongue lapping at the speeding pulse.

Sloppy kisses rained upon his body, skin sensitive to each and every touch. He responded eagerly, unwilling for this to give way to the cold ever again.

He felt the sun taking him in, calloused hands rubbing and bringing it all to a fever pitch. Sweat beaded but never cooled, instead evaporating as fingers reached for the sunburst of hair, tangling deep into the wild strands, begging wordlessly.

He drank it all down, feeling it burn in his throat and saturate every pore. He arched to the heavens, warmth suffusing everything. It pulsed like a separate heartbeat as hands took his own.

He could feel the roughness of burnt knuckles, realizing that the cauterized skin was healing slowly. He tugged the other back atop him, mouth claiming the raw flesh again, teeth gentle as he explored the torn edges with child-like curiosity.

About them, his sand writhed, reacting to the intensity of the moment, barely restrained. It slithered through the grass and exposed roots of trees as he stirred against the other, rekindling these savage sensations anew.

The sun moved with him, undulating in a rhythm as old as time itself. There was voracity yet to be sated, a final joining in store for the pair.

With a bit of graceless maneuvering, the unfamiliar eventually became known. The first thrust was a blossom of unanticipated pain, but it was borne with a wide-eyed understanding. Pain was real, which meant that this was real. The sun personified in flesh was actually holding him, filling him, chasing away the cold, ending this long-suffering quest to escape.

He pushed back, welcoming it, stoking the fires that had been laid to seed inside. Tighter he clung and faster it went, pushing inside deeply, penetrating to the very heart of it all. The animalistic furies of two demons housed in mortal shells were set free, no fear of damaging the other. Limits were not tested – they were pushed past the edge and beyond until there was just the moment, just himself and the sun, gorging absolutely on passion and lust.

Boundless hunger was set free, neither one satisfied until flesh was so raw it hurt. Hearts opened up in a flurry of shared cries under the fall of the moon and shadow of trees. Amidst coiling sand and whispering leaves, they coupled frantically, wild as a flickering flame, vainly staying alight against a torrential current.

Then in a whirlwind of carnal delight, it ended. Pushed to the finality of stamina, they lay together in a tangle of sweaty limbs, certainly not eased for a lifetime of want, though for the moment however, for this night, it was enough.

He pulled the singed hand against his lips once more, ever fascinated by the wound, tasting the dried blood that lingered metallic against the roof of his mouth.

He watched as dazed cerulean fought to remain open; his own eyes content, relaxed. Something even this blessedly gratifying would not be enough to alter his permanent insomnia, but it gave him reason enough to keep sojourn. His passive expression did not openly convey these thoughts, although somewhere inside his companion was awareness because of that tired grin that pulled at the flushed vulpine face spoke volumes of shared understanding.

Then sleep claimed him, dousing the vibrancy of his warmth but not stealing it entirely. It was in this closeness that Gaara slipped into, realizing he would follow his blue-eyed sun to the ends of the earth come morning and every day after.

For within this embrace, he had discovered that his newfound lover in a wash of purifying light saved his soul from that dark void he once feared would swallow it.

His warmth – the heat, anger, emotion, determination... Love.


End file.
